Puzzles
by LondonBelow
Summary: [preRENT] Maureen has left, Roger is angry, and Mark begins to break, tired of picking up the pieces. ch. 9: Mark and Roger establish boundaries. COMPLETE.
1. Crossed Words

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

Mark awoke painfully conscious of his high temperature, the pain in his back from sleeping too long in an uncomfortable position, and the smell of bacon. Mark's dream, a pleasant but twisted memory involving the film _The Last Escape_ which, on reflection, he had been too young for in 1970, faded slowly as he recalled the date and precisely what the date meant for Roger.

He groaned and pushed away the covers. One mystery solved: Mark's high temperature had been induced by the sweater he had fallen asleep in. "Undfm… sweater," he muttered blearily, pulling the thing over his head. "Where my shirt…?" Unlike Roger, Mark kept his belongings organized. Ironically, the shirt he usually used for pajamas had once belonged to Roger. It seemed to have retained a mind of its own, and constantly hid when Mark needed it, thus the sweater. Mark pulled the worn thing over his head before stumbling out to tackle the morning.

Roger sat at the table, a newspaper spread out before him and a pencil in one hand. He took one look at jammies-and-socks Mark and giggled hopelessly. Grumbling, Mark shuffled past his roommate and into the kitchen. "There's coffee," Roger offered, then he squeezed his eyes shut and laughed.

Trying to ignore his friend, Mark poured himself a cup of coffee and slurped his first sip of the day. Once the stuff hit his tongue, Mark was clutching the sink and wheezing. "Fuck, Roger!"

"No, thank you," Roger replied. He looked at the squashed remains of a sandwich in his hand and took a bite. "Mm."

"I forgot your idea of coffee is…"

"Hey, you know the alternative."

"Yeah, you being grumpy all day. But this… is tar," Mark said, looking into his cup and roving it in slow circles. He stuck out his tongue as he poured the coffee into the sink. "I don't know how you stomach this stuff. I'm surprised you're not constantly constipated." He thought for a moment, then added,"Or running to the bathroom every minute."

Roger muttered to himself, "And here comes the bacon rant." He glanced again at his bacon sandwich and took another bite. "Mm." The established Sunday morning routine changed little from week to week, as always when Roger and Mark lived together, and so it had become their fallback, their constant. Roger had begun to notice that Saturday nights he had trouble falling asleep; his heart beat quicker with anticipation.

Mark grabbed the milk and took a long swallow. "It's bad enough you leave the coffee out--"

"You don't have to drink it!"

"--but must you eat that?"

"It's delicious. Persian king, enabled a priest, ten letters… Artexerxes." Roger penciled the name into his crossword.

"It's not fair. The place smells like fried pig."

Roger, refusing to face Mark in favor of the crossword, held up his hand, his index finger raised, and said, "One, it's my choice." He raised his middle finger beside the index finger and said, "Two, it's my money." Finally, counting on his ring finger, "Three, yum. Read between the lines, Mark. Consider yourself Saturned."

Mark growled. Because he was an unthreatening type, it was a comical sound, one which caused Roger to giggle--not that this was a difficult task. Nearly everything cause Roger to giggle, in the right mood."It's unkosher,"Mark protested.

Roger's hand returned to the crossword. "Anger at the first knuckle, six… temper." He penciled it in.

"Temper?" Mark asked. Roger raised his hands and pointed to the base of his thumb. "Really?" Mark asked. Roger's hands twisted to give him a double thumbs-up before returning to the crossword. "Can we talk about the bacon thing, please?"

"Mark, I like bacon! You don't have to eat it."

"Yeah, but… it's not kosher."

"Exactly. So none for you." Roger accented his words by popping the last bit of his sandwich in his mouth and brushing crumbs off his fingers. "Mmm… breakfast. Look, I think this is fair."

Mark sat opposite Roger, toast in hand, and leaned forward to help with the crossword. "How is it fair?" he asked. "PD off morphine, eight letters off p-r--"

"Priapism," Roger said, gramicing.

"Sorry." Mark considered himself an accessory to these crosswords. More often than not, Roger had the answer before Mark had finished with the clues--crosswords were not Mark's forte. But they seemed to make Roger happy, and for the topic Mark intended to raise he wanted Roger as happy as possible, so Mark sat at the table and helped with the crossword.

"It's fair 'cause you're Jewish. Deal." Roger shrugged. "Cap double-index to Keller, r in the second slot-- brother," Roger interrupted himself and penciled in the word. "Every religion has drawbacks."

Scowling, Mark asked, "How would you know?" Roger showed no signs of any religious affiliation--neither culturally, as Mark did, or spiritually, through prayer or belief. He did not even wear any indicative jewelry, like a cross or a Star of David.

Roger tilted his head; he and Mark were inches apart, both leaning over the crossword. In a high voice, Roger recited, "Our father who art in heaven…" Then he looked at the crossword again.

"You're a--a Catholic?" Mark stammered. "I never knew… there's a Saint Roger?"

Roger nodded. "Given his robes by Francis of Assisi. This matters? Freud's heyday in a toolbox--"

"Are you sure?" Mark asked. "It's fourteen letters and we only have one of them."

"It's _The Turn of the Screw_," Roger replied. "I don't need any letters for that." He penciled in the answer. Sitting behind Rachel Matthews in junior year English taught Roger more than a few things. _"Davis?" Cover the puzzle--crosswords even then--"Sorry, Sir, I don't know." _

_"Very well. Matthews?"_

_And promptly Rachel answered, "Well, as you know, I favor the Freudian interpretation--"_

_Chuckles from the class, the teacher. "Yes, Rachel we _all_ know." Then a note landed on Roger's desk. '3-down traitor/villain? Matthews.'_

Mark persisted, "But… you're Catholic?"

Roger sighed. "My parents were--are Catholics. How d'you think I knew Artexerxes?"

"Catholic?" Mark asked, his voice rising in pitch.

"Raised, not practicing! If I answer your questions now, will you promise not to get the camera?"

"You're Catholic?" Mark could not comprehend.

It was the same answer every one of Mark's questions would receive: Roger tossed his head and laughed out loud. Mark blushed and bent closer to the crossword. He loved that laugh; it was uniquely Roger's. Nevertheless, it hurt to be laughed at."Three letters, will it bring you down but it can blank, four letters."

"Sing," Roger supplied. "Beatles. You say you've seen seven wonders..."

It was the most Mark had heard Roger sing since April's suicide. Rather than comment or ask, as he wished to, for the rest of the song, Mark nodded, picked up the pencil and scrawled the letters upside-down. "So..." He preferred not to ask, never one to savor conflict, but the alternative... "Today's the day," he said.

Roger frowned. "Is that a clue?"

"Um, no. It's a... reminder. Because today's the day you refill your perscriptions--"

"Oh, yeah," Roger mumbled. "Herriot of Yorkshire, well that's easy."

"Roger?"

More than anything because he knew already what Mark would ask, Roger snapped, "What, Mark?"

"Are you going to the pharmacy today?"

The silence in the loft crushed Mark's lungs. Slowly, Roger's muscles tensed. His knuckles lost color. Mark forced himself to stand his ground, staring at Roger's down-turned head. At last Roger managed, "No, Mark. I'm not." He tossed down the pencil. "If you'll excuse me, I'm not in the mood for puzzles anymore."

He disappeared into the dankness of his room. Mark stared after him and sighed. He wasn't much in the mood for crosswords, either. From Roger's room came the sounds of tapes, an old Beatles album. Mark gritted his teeth and emptied the coffee pot into the sink. He rinsed the pot twice, then left it upside down to dry; the greasy pan he washed as thoroughly as possible. _So sick of cleaning up after him... he's like some deranged puppy._

Mark went to Roger's door and knocked. Hopefully he had calmed down. "Roger!"

"Yeah?"

"I'm leaving your pills in a cup on the table, okay? I'll refill the perscriptions, just take your AZT."

After a moment's pause without response, Mark turned away from the door and went to the kitchen to portion out Roger's pills. _Puppy? That's too much a compliment. He's more like a teenager..._ Mark paused. He had checked the number of pills on each bottle, the total already substantial, when he came to the tricyclic. He looked at the bottle, full of anti-depressants. _"I am not crazy."_ Roger's words echoed in Mark's mind. And yet...

Mark popped the cap off the bottle and dropped one more pill into the cup.

"Take your AZT!" he called as he headed out the door.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	2. Jigsaws

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun! RENT is the creation of Jonathan Larson, Tosca is the creation of Puccini, and AZT is the creation of a bunch of scientists trying to cure cancer. But hey, it's all brilliant.

* * *

When Mark returned to the loft, clutching his messenger bag protectively, he glanced around and knew at once that Roger had barely left his room. The bathroom door was open and the cup of pills gone; otherwise, the loft was undisturbed. Mark set his camera gently on the table, then brought his bag into the kitchen-space, flipped it open and set it on the counter. From the inner pocket, a safe, zippered compartment, he withdrew Roger's medications. 

_What am I supposed to do if he doesn't take them?_ Mark wondered. Only a few weeks ago, Roger had called from the rehab clinic and asked Mark to take legal responsibility for him. As Mark sniffed the remaining milk in the bottle, he remembered Roger's exact words: "Will you take legal responsibility for me?" He had turned the necessity into a proposal, unconsciouslymimicking the emphasis used in so many films. Will marry me? Will you take legal responsibility for me?

And, like a fool, without half a thought Mark had answered, "Sure." Now he wondered. Should he have refused? Might someone else have been better suited to the task? Collins always had an almost magical ability to understand Roger's inanities, to respond to him. Roger never shouted at Collins, or stood and left the room midway through a conversation with him. _Lucky,_ Mark thought with a twinge of envy. Why didn't Roger like him?

_Don't,_ he warned himself. There were more important things than whether or not Roger liked him. For example, what would he do if Roger stopped taking his pills? It was suicide, an illegal act. Mark had a legal obligation as well as a moral one to stop that from happening.

Shaking his head, Mark eyed the milk. The bottle was filled only halfway; with a heavy sigh he held the bottle under the tap and watered down the milk within. They managed on the few-days under-the-counter-pay jobs Mark occasionally worked and what was left of Roger's "rock star cash". They managed. Nevertheless, Mark wished Roger would leave the apartment, find work, even under-the-counter cash or playing on street corners, as he had in their early days.

Mark sighed. _I don't care if he plays on street corners,_ he thought, _I just wish he'd play. Anything._ He pulled from his bag their provisions for that week and however long it was until he had cash enough to shop again. A bag of cereal--_some day I'll be able to afford the boxed stuff,_ Mark promised himself. _Some day I won't have to buy the cheap stuff from the back of the market. _This particular day, 'the cheap stuff' meant a box of stale donuts, nearly-stale crackers, powdered soup and a plastic-wrapped assortment of fruits just barely past their best.

Rather than focus on his pathetic haul, Mark pulled the final item from his bag. Cradling the chocolate bar in his hands, he thought at it, _Please make Roger happy. Make him come out of his room. I don't know what I'll do if…_ Mark squeezed his eyes shut. He would not cry. He could not! Why, the chocolate might work the miracle of pulling Roger from his room.

Mark knocked on the bedroom door. "Rog?" he called. "You awake?" The sound of scuffling feet answered his question, then Roger knocked once. "You gonna talk to me?" Roger knocked again. Mark's eyes itched. _Come on, Roger…_ He crouched down and held the chocolate bar under the door. As with most of Roger's junk food, Mark had purchased this with the understanding that Roger would pay him back. "If you come out, you can have it," he offered.

More scuffling replied, then three crumpled dollar bills appeared at Mark's feet. He bit his lip. "Okay, Roger." He pushed the candy under the door. "You won't come out for a little while?" Mark asked. "We could…" What could they do? "We could finish the crossword," Mark suggested hopefully, "or…"

Why could he think of nothing they did together? _Maybe because he only came back after April, and then it was only drugs and isolation. _"We could talk… about… stuff?" But depressed Roger rarely talked with Mark. He talked with Collins. Mark knew that Roger would say no.

Roger threw a shoe at the door. Mark recoiled; unfortunately, he was already crouching near the ground. Recoiling sent him sprawling; Mark tried to tell himself the tears in his eyes were products of the fall. "Ow. Roger--" _Roger, I need you to stop this. I don't know what else to do. Roger, I care about you, you're my best friend, you're all I have,and it's killing me to watch you suffer and die!_ "What are you so angry about?" Mark asked. "What did I do?" After a lengthy silence, he said, "Well, if you don't want to talk to me, we could call Collins." _If you want to get over yourself and actually speak to someone... actually use the telephone._

To his surprise, Roger ripped open the door and shouted, "I fucking told you I'm not crazy!" Then he stopped. "Mark?"

"Here."

Roger glanced down. "Oh. Hey."

Mark blushed, feeling a complete fool. "Um… hey," he said. He had always known that Roger was taller than him, but he had never fully appreciated Roger's exact, considerable height. Mark brushed his knuckles across his eyes. _Say something, anything,_ Mark thought, uncomfortable with the sudden shifted perspective. His leaden limbs refused to help heave him to his feet. _Say something! _"So, how about some Monopoly?" he asked hopefully.

Roger made a sound that might have been a choked laugh or a groan of disgust, then muttered, "Stop being such a fucking Tosca," and retreated into his room.

Mark covered his face with his hands. How had he become so pathetic? How had he been reduced to this lonesome, pathetic thing, sniffling on the apartment floor, biting his lip so Roger wouldn't have to hear him? _You know what Roger will think,_ Mark told himself. The difficult truth was, Roger reacted to his emotions like a teenager. Hearing Mark crying, Roger would know he was responsible and he would apologize. He would apologize too much. He would punish himself, depress himself, lose the will to live--to swallow AZT. That was all it took. One day without AZT and Roger was as good as dead. One day, and the disease progressed exponentially.

Knowing this, Mark forced himself to his feet. He headed for the bathroom, locked himself in and filled the sink with cold water. He folded his jacket carefully and set on the back of the toilet, then folded his glasses and set them carefully on the counter. Briefly he squinted at the figure in the mirror, recognizable only as human, not any specific person or even of a specific age. Then Mark pulled his shirt over his head.

He gasped and took a moment to catch his breath. "Fuck… cold!" he managed to squeak. The chill of early December pressed his heart painfully. Mark folded his shirt and set it atop his jacket, nearly shaking from the cold. _How does Roger manage to sleep like this?_ he wondered. The answer loomed darkly at the edges of conscious thought, but Mark pushed it away with a splash of cold water.

"Gah!"

The cold brought him to his senses, shocking, almost a salve to his chapped cheeks. Mark found that he no longer wanted to cry. The cold water had washed away that desire. So Roger was difficult and unhappy. That was all right. Mark could handle that. It hardly mattered; he could manage. Already he had Roger taking his pills; clearly, Mark would manage. So Maureen had…

_Maureen._

Mark bit his lip. He splashed water on his face again, but to no avail. The moment of zen had passed. All was not right in the world. Roger was miserable. Mark was miserable. Only Maureen was happy, and what right of hers to be happy? A scream bubbled up inside of Mark, and he clenched his teeth to keep it silent.

_I can't do anything about that,_ Mark told himself. _Maureen chose. Maureen decided to leave me._ His squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the edge of the sink.

But why had Maureen left him? What had he done? Always, always Mark had tried to make her happy, to show his affection. He knew her constant flirting to be no threat, and he accepted it though he hated it. He always set up her equipment, helped clean up after performances--hell,he did all the cleaning up. He still did all the cleaning up, the setting up. He had done everything he could think of, everything she indicated as correct, and still Maureen had left.

Mark bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. What had he done? Nothing made sense. Why had she gone? If only he knew the moment things had gone wrong, but thinking back, all Mark found was tears and pity. Next time, how could he do right when he didn't know what _wrong_ was?

Suddenly he understood a sliver of what Roger had been through with April.

At that, Mark marched out of the bathroom and knocked on Roger's door. "What?" Roger demanded.

_Teach me not to care. _The words were at the base of Mark's tongue. _Teach me to heal. You did it. You managed. I can, too. Tell me, Roger. Tell me how to make it all make sense._"You okay?" he asked.

There was a moment's silence. Mark listened for any sound, any minor indication of what Roger was doing. As the seconds ticked by, Mark expected a knock at the door as a response. When Roger answered, his voice cracked. "No," he said. "I'm dying," he said, matter-of-factly.

Mark bit his lip. _You don't have to_. But Roger was not denying himself pills. He was trying, in his twist way, to accept it. Mark knocked again. "Can I come in?" he asked.

Roger cried, "I don't want to talk right now!"

_Neither do I,_ Mark thought. He grabbed his camera and fled, half-naked and half blind, to the roof.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are always appreciated.

Oh, and yes, this is the sequel to 'Call'.


	3. Wordplay

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

Mark returned to the loft at the tail end of dusk, feeling foolish. He had barely been able to discern what he filmed, and at last resorted to filming the sunset because the light indicated the object. As he inched towards the loft, setting his feet down carefully, he kept one hand on the wall, feeling his way forward.

Some good this had done him. _Moron,_ Mark told himself. _Going up to the roof, oh, brilliant. Blind and stripped, there's a good time to stand exposed to the elements in November. And now you're bringing a cold into the apartment, in all probability, with an immuno-compromised roommate. Can't you do anything right? Or at least un-stupid?_

He found his glasses before setting down his camera. Once it was nestled comfortably on the table, he dressed, pulling on three layers of clothing before he was satisfied. Mark then risked what little self-esteem he had: he knocked on Roger's bedroom door. "Rog, you awake?" he called quietly, in case Roger was not at all awake. "Listen, I'm going to make something for dinner. You can come out if you feel hungry, okay?" Still no reply.

Mark sighed, but found himself unable to blame Roger. After all, he wasn't excited about powdered soup, either. It wasn't even interesting from a culinary perspective. Mark checked the packet. In bright, hopeful letters, in proclaimed, _With Real Dried Lentils!_ This depressing statement assured Mark of one thing: Roger would not be having supper that night. If a Hershey's bar couldn't lure him out of his room, if Mark could not entice him to leave, dried lentils would not do the trick.

The cutlery drawer squeaked, though under the racket of shaken spoons, forks and knives the sound disappeared. Mark reached into the back of the drawer, his fingers scrabbling around until they touched a tiny wad of tin foil. Grinning, Mark withdrew his prize and carefully spread the foil out on the countertop. Half an oxo cube remained; half of this half disappeared into a pot of simmering water. Mark stirred the pot hopefully, almost pleased at the ensuing discoloration.

He turned down the flame and knocked on Roger's door. "Hey, it's alliteration night," he said. "Roger! Come on, I worked hard on this… it's not easy to have four b's in one sentence, but I managed it: beef broth and..." _Please, please let this amuse him_... "bruised bananas. So would you come out please?"

Luckily for Mark, Roger's door had no lock. Previously it had, but when Roger took to locking himself away for days with only paraphernalia, it had been Collins who, undisturbed by the sight of his friend sprawled out with a needle in one hand, a Bic lighter and spoon beside him, removed the lock. Roger might have been livid, had he had the energy and presence of mind.

The entire episode had terrified Mark. Seeing Roger high always terrified Mark.

Now he took a deep breath, twisted the doorknob and entered the dankness of Roger's lair. To his surprise, the room did not repulse him. It had aspects of logical repulsion: a balmy heat due to poor ventilation, Roger's beloved dank, a mess on the floor and a smell of sweat and salt--the smell of Roger when he hadn't eaten or bathed in over two days. Part of Mark knew this to be the quintessence of disgusting, yet as he padded through the mess of dirty clothes and discarded pages from legal pads, he found himself fully willing to continue forward. The room was disgusting, but it did not disgust him.

Mark's toe connected sharply with Roger's lamp. Swearing gently, Mark illuminated the room. "Hey, Rog," he said.

Roger moaned. "Turn off the light," he said.

Ignoring him, Mark sat on the stained mattress, careful not to sit on any part of the shadowy mess that might be Roger. Mark knew for sure only that Roger was lying on his stomach, his head resting on his left arm and most of the rest of him buried under the blanket. At the end of the bed, Roger's toes curled angrily. "You're letting the cold in," he muttered.

"You're letting the stupid in," Mark retorted.

"I didn't let you… you just showed up," Roger said.

Haltingly, Mark reached out a hand. He nearly let it rest gently on Roger's head, but lost his nerve at the last second and dropped his hand clumsily onto a spot that might have been Roger's shoulder. "Why don't you get up and have dinner?"

"Not hungry," Roger replied. "I already ate. Chocolate."

Mark dragged his left foot backwards and forwards across the floor. As he did, he encountered something out of place. He picked it up. "Rog, I'm holding the chocolate bar right now. You haven't eaten anything." Roger mumbled an obscenity. "Come on, Roger! Look, you're losing weight… you're already compromised. You know that. Please eat." Mark moved his hand to touch Roger's hair, petting him as one might a kitten. "Roger…" he crooned. "Get up, Roger. Come and have dinner with me. It's alliterated…"

Roger couldn't help himself: he laughed. Unfortunately, this only encouraged Mark. "We can have a Poetry Dinner."

Roger groaned. "No… Poetry Dinner's no fun without Collins. He was always the best."

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "but it'll still be fun. Come on." When Roger said nothing, Mark tugged his hair gently. "C'mon, Rog. Eat something. Bolster that immune system!"

"That's just it," Roger said.

"What is?" Mark asked, surprised. Not only had Roger responded intelligibly, he had engaged in the conversation.

Roger sat up, twisting awkwardly until he had the blanket half-wrapped around one shoulder like a drunken toga. Despite his bleary appearance, he explained quite lucidly, "I'm sick, Mark. I'm dying. I'm taking AZT, but… you know how many pills there are."

Mark nodded. "A lot," he admitted. "But, Roger, they're working--"

"For how long?" Roger demanded. "I'm already dying, Mark. So why don't _you_ go eat a decent dinner, because you're not dying." He grabbed the chocolate bar and offered it. "Here. You eat it. You're skin and bones, you know."

Mark laughed. "You're not much more," he replied.

"Except, dying," Roger said.

"I want you to live," Mark told him, his voice nearly breaking as he fought to suppress a sob.

Sadly, Roger smiled. "Sometimes I want me to live, too." Mark blinked hard and looked away. "I'm sorry," Roger said. "It's just that… you aren't dying. I don't want you to give up anything for me. I'm a corpse already."

"Don't say that," Mark sniffled.

"Don't cry," Roger bartered.

Mark stopped crying. "If you promise to eat, we can have Poetry Dinner on your bed."

Roger frowned. "Okay," he said.

"Great!"

Within minutes the boys sat opposite one another, cross-legged on Roger's bed, each with a bowl, a banana and a spoon. Ignoring his spoon completely, Roger drank directly from his bowl. "I can't believe you did that/You're eating like a street rat!" Mark rhymed. He loved Poetry Dinners. Usually he spoke very little during them, but the words exchanged always encouraged laughter and camaraderie. Nothing soothed a fight like Poetry Dinner, when every sentence had to be poetic.

"Yeah, but you lied/causing the oxo cube to hide/so you're not so…" Roger paused and thought for a moment. "You're not so cool/You're really quite the fool!"

Mark laughed. "A fool I may be/But my life's no fantasy/Leave the room, Roger. You can help me with the dishes."

"I can swim with the fishes!… Actually, I kind of think swimming is fun."

"Maybe it is when you're not the one/Whose trunks fell off when he jumped in the pool--"

"Poor fool!" Roger knew he was going to laugh; the air bubbled in his chest. Momentarily he debated spitting his mouthful of broth into the bowl, then he realized that the alternative involved very warm broth and the very tender skin inside his nose, coupled with quite a mess of his dinner. He spat and laughed. "I'm laughing at you," he specified.

Mark's shoulders slumped. "My best friend, it's true," he admitted sadly. Roger laughed. "Hey, you're looking better--see, if you try/It doesn't hurt to go on living, Roger, please don't die!"

"Did you really swim tackle-out?"

"It's nothing to go on about!" Mark blushed.

Roger grinned horribly. "Where did this happen? And when?"

"At the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center," Mark admitted, "when I was thirteen."

"That didn't rhyme/It seems this time/You don't care for rules/But words aren't your tools!"

"Hey, that was really good."

Roger rolled his eyes. "Could you sound a little more surprised? I don't think I was _quite_ offended enough."

To his surprise, Mark found that his happiness felt more than happy. He was happy: with Roger awake, upright, talking and cheerful, Mark couldn't have been unhappy if he tried. But his jeans felt a little tighter than they should have in an inopportune region, and his stomach was turning somersaults. _No. It's not like that_, Mark told himself. But then, wasn't it? He should have known when he walked into the room and wasn't repulsed by the overwhelming smell of sweat.

And of course, as Mark began to blush, he knew Roger would ask why. Luckily, he knew just the distraction to provide. Mark grabbed the fruit he had brought for dinner and began to consume it in a casually sensuous manner. Roger laughed, as Mark had known he would, but Mark found himself longing for a different laugh, the fully Roger laugh, head thrown back, his mouth open wide in a pathetic attempt to continue breathing.

Roger never laughed that way for Mark.

That night, Mark's bed felt colder than ever. He shivered with the blankets drawn close around his chin. Aware of the tears trickling down his cheeks and the itching need to excite his nerves, Mark stuffed a pillow into his mouth.

_They don't want me._

He wept quietly.

_Roger won't even stay alive for me. He won't even try to care… Two days and he's still not left the room._

As Mark's need to weep grew fiercer, he knew he wouldn't be able to keep the secret much longer. _Don't. Don't, just don't cry. It's easy. Roger needs you right now… Roger's always needed you! It was April, the drugs, the clinic… Why do I always have to be the one picking up the pieces?_

_I guess this is why all the drugs. April fell apart… just like Roger. She couldn't handle life._ Mark understood, then, why Roger had started relying on heroin. It hurt. Being responsible, holding onto that, made Mark want to hit the walls until they crumbled. Just for a little while, he wished he could stop feeling. He wanted to shut down, or, failing that, to feel good.

Mark could think of only one way to make his body feel good, to forget the pain. He rose as quietly as he could, inched carefully across the loft, holding in a hiss of pain at the cold. Roger had completed the list of self-destructive ways in which to avoid life. Now it was Mark's turn for euphoria. It was his turn to run away.

He paused at Roger's door and listened. From Roger's muttering, Mark knew he was in a deep sleep. Smiling, Mark tiptoed to the bathroom, locked the door, and masturbated himself to a state of oblivion.


	4. StrawberryLightbulb

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

The telephone rang at nine o'clock in the morning; Mark dragged himself out of bed to answer. Certain Roger slept on, Mark had taken a 'personal morning', lying in bed and savoring the warmth, all too aware of the bitter cold awaiting him when he tossed off the covers. The telephone made him leave, not because, on that particular morning, Mark Cohen gave a damn about the rest of the world. In fact, he felt miserable enough that, had he been Atlas, he'd have been bowling.

But Mark did care about Roger. Despite his stubborn, selfish, arrogant personality, Roger had somehow wormed his way into Mark's heart. Mark loved him, platonically and, painfully, in the other way. Nothing Mark did could change that.

Caring about Roger didn't enable Mark to care for him, though. Mark could stroke himself through the tougher moments of his days, but once his nerves calmed he knew that nothing had changed. Roger continued to deteriorate, and nothing Mark did seemed to change that. So when the telephone rang, he abandoned good sense, leapt from his bed and snatched up the receiver.

"Hello?" he asked, praying it was Collins' voice he heard on the other end of the line.

"Hi, I'm calling from the Twenty-second Street Rehabilitation Clinic. Is this the residence of Roger Davis?" inquired a feminine voice. To Mark's surprise, the voice did not chafe with the bubbliness he expected of one so young--she did sound young.

"Yeah, but Roger won't-- I mean, he can't-- Roger's asleep," Mark stammered. _Asleep like a colicky, crack-addicted baby._

"Okay," said the girl, "then is Mark Cohen available?"

"Yes. That's me," Mark said.

"Great! Do you have time to answer some questions?"

Mark checked his watch. "I guess so," he said, as though he had somewhere important to be. He did have work that day, a barely-above-minimum-wage job waiting tables from noon to five, but he needn't leave for another two and a half hours.

"Okay, first off, we need to know if Roger's been using again."

The response came without thought: "No, of course not." _He won't leave the house. I'll bring home just about anything, but not drugs. _

"That's good… Is he maintaining a healthy diet and regular sleep pattern?"

_Regular sleep pattern? Yeah, he never wakes up._ "Yeah. Um, he doesn't eat a lot of junk food or anything… mostly fruit and stuff." It wasn't a complete lie. Roger did eat fruit. He loved to eat fruit. There wasn't a fruit on the face of the earth, including the kiwi and the pineapple, that Roger Davis did not enjoy eating, because there was not a fruit on the face of the earth, including the kiwi and pineapple, that Roger Davis could not in some way relate to sex or the sex-related bits of anatomy.

"And is he able to sleep soundly?"

"No," Mark blurted before he could help himself. _Shit! _Realizing he had given the wrong answer, he amended, "I mean, Roger… since I've known him he hasn't been a very sound sleeper. It works for him."

"Okay."

The girl continued to inquire as to whether Roger was living a full, healthy life. Mark lied through his teeth. Yes, Roger had a job; Mark had finagled him a position at the restaurant where he worked, essentially flipping burgers. It wasn't particularly difficult or high-paying, but they managed. Oh, he worked six days a week, yes, both of them did, and they went out occasionally, them or them and their girlfriends and their friend Collins. Of course Roger took his AZT willingly, he took all of his pills. Roger was a happy man. He was living his life.

At last the girl reminded Mark of the many hotlines and support groups available for people coping with AIDS and those affected by this. "Thank you," he choked, his face awash with tears. That was the life he wanted for Roger. Why couldn't Roger want that life, too? It was a good life. Everything would be so much easier if both of them wanted the same things.

Mark sniffed and rubbed away tears. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. It wasn't going to happen. Not with Roger. What began as a pleasant morning was quickly becoming a sour day; the sole redeeming feature was that, at eight o'clock that morning, Mark remembered hearing grumbling and shuffling, then the sound of running water. Roger took his AZT.

_Small miracles, Mark,_ he told himself.

Dispirited, Mark knocked on Roger's door, then entered without awaiting a response and settled himself on the side of the bed, beside the lump that was Roger. "Rog, you up?" Mark asked, forcing the words out in a bright slur. "Ro-o-o-oge-e-er…"

"Go away, glowing leprechaun."

"'Go away, glowing leprechaun'," Mark repeated dubiously.

Roger rolled over to sort of, almost face his friend. "Why do you wake me?" he demanded sleepily, not unkindly. "Why do you do this, Mark? I thought we were friends."

Mark smiled. Roger was being silly; okay, silly Roger was better than depressed Roger. Mark liked silly Roger. He was a lot of fun. "We were friends," he said, then quickly amended as Roger's eyes bugged, "Are! Are friends, we are friends!"

"So do a _friend_ a favor and let him get back to sleep."

"Ha. Okay, well, you can sleep in a minute. I'm going out. Take your AZT, try to write something today…" _Small miracles,_ Mark reminded himself. "…or just tune the Fender. I'm going out, probably see you around five-thirty. Be awake."

Roger pulled a pillow over his face. "Have a good day," he muffled.

"Thanks," Mark said, laughing. Something had changed. Roger had changed. Whatever had happened, Mark was pleased with it. Roger was awake, joking, he seemed to be happy. Mark couldn't remember Roger being happy since…

It was not when April died. Roger wasn't happy before that, either. It was the drugs, and the music, which never sounded as good to him as it used to, and why were his songs so flat when he was in love? _Because you only loved the drugs_. That was what April told him. They would fight, and every few weeks it was Mark sitting in the bar with half-drunk Roger, listening to him wonder what was going on with April and consider breaking up with her.

Mark had hated those nights

So Roger hadn't been truly happy with April. Eventually, he might have been, and she might have been, but she decided not to stick around and find out. And Roger fell apart: drugs replaced conversation, replaced food, replaced sleep. Replaced music. Certainly he had been unhappy then.

About that time, Mark had become afraid of Roger. Always there had been a wariness of him, but that was a natural thing: Roger was a big man with a short temper. He did many things that brought him only regret. But always there was the knowledge, one unable to conquer emotion but at least to stay it, that Roger cared too much about Mark to hurt him. Roger knew Mark would crumple under a single punch, and when he wanted to hurt Mark, in their most vicious fights, Roger chose cruel words to blows.

Then heroin made him a skeleton.

This review of Roger's recent, miserable life had taken Mark out of the loft and down into the underground, where he had filmed the blanketed beggars shivering under their tattered, mismatched raiment.

He silenced his narration--four years of high school had taught Mark how to avoid unnecessary fights--but said to himself, _One gazes in fascination at these unfortunates, who bundle themsleves beneath every scrap they own._

He lowered the camera. _It's almost tough to be sorry,_ he thought. Ever since Roger had come home from rehab, Mark had stopped giving change to beggars. He cared. He could not stop caring, with the painful twist of guilt in his gut insisting that he could afford the toss out whatever dimes floated in his pockets, but Roger mattered more. AZT was expensive, and in truth the decision more often than not was, for Mark, did the beggars matter more than Roger? More than food, more than film, more than guitar strings (G-d willing)?

And always, the answer was no. Social reform could wait. The documentary was for social reform. Mark worked for social reform.

He turned up the collar of his jacket and bent his head in a manner that might have been intending protection against the cold. As Mark strode from the station, the only flaw in this plan was his knowledge that the angry desperation of blanket people would not bounce off his poor armor. To avoid their scorn, Mark dove into his thoughts, where he heard nothing.

The heroin made Roger a skeleton. He would shoot up, and Mark would search for any excuse not to walk near his locked door. When Roger left the door open, as he mistakenly would when thinking of nothing but his next high, the sight of him prone on the floor made Mark nauseous. His 'kit' would lie in a messy pile on the floor: the spoon, the lighter, the needle and the little plastic bag.

Mark had stolen it once--the bag. He crept into Roger's room and took the bag, and that was that. Roger had accused Collins of taking it. It was a kind accusation, but an accusation nonetheless. "Did you take it?"

There was no question as to what _it_ was. "No," Collins had replied honestly, "but I'm glad you lost it. Maybe now you'll actually get clean."

After a monumental fight between Roger and Collins, when Mark's nerves had barely calmed, as the five of them--Mark, Roger, Collins, Benny and Maureen--sat down to eat that night, Roger dropped his spoon. At first he could smile and pass this off as an accident, but anyone could see that he had started to sweat. When he picked up the spoon, it shook so badly he had to put it down again. Grinning weakly, Roger had said, "Guess I'm… just tired." He stifled a groan as he stood and wandered to his room. Even his walk had changed.

Mark and Collins traded glances. _Shit_. Roger was apologizing for their fight in the best way he could think of: by getting clean.

"You guys might want to get out of here for a couple of days," Collins warned the others. "This is… this isn't going to be nice."

Maureen laughed. "I think I can handle not nice," she said.

"Roger is going to scream," Collins explained, ignoring Maureen. "He's going to sweat. He'll be in pain and he won't sleep. He'll lock himself in the bathroom for hours, he'll vomit. No one would blame you for leaving for a couple of days." Maureen and Benny both agreed to leave. Mark shook his head. "You sure?" Collins asked.

"I'm not… gonna leave him alone for this. Or you."

So began the fruitless journey of Collins and Mark, trying to help Roger through withdrawal at home.

"And," Mark muttered to himself as, months later, he kicked up the stairs from the subway station, "it didn't even work."

He checked his watch. Where had the hours gone? Already it was past eleven o'clock, more than half past. Mark sighed and headed for work, determined not to let depression get the better of him. He knew better than anyone the dangers of that.

TO BE CONTINUED!


	5. Shame

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is just for fun.

AN: Please don't hate me for the original character. She's a plot device, that's it! Honest! She serves a purpose, nothing more. Please don't hate me for her!

Mark worked an extra half-shift. He saw no downside, just the occupation of a few hours, mindless work to keep Mark from his depression, his attraction, his dreary freezing loft. He told himself the time thinking about himself instead of Roger would do him good. He would think instead of how to heal his own life.

Yet Mark thought of his wages not as dollars, but as pill bottles. He worked not in terms of hours but of little capsules of AZT. He left not with the promise of a paycheck, but a few more healthy days. He didn't earn money. He earned Roger.

By the time Mark returned to the loft, eight o'clock had rolled around. He locked the door, clicked on a light, but the motions felt empty. There was no inspiration. The day-to-day habits, logical little things Mark's analytical brain understood, were just that, just habits. He needed more. Mark needed to know that he locked the door for safety. He needed to know that he lit the room for work or vision. He needed to feel something.

"Rog, you up?" Mark called, knocking on Roger's door. He wandered into the room without awaiting a response, because no response was coming. "Roger." Mark reached out one hand and touched Roger's bare shoulder. The connection made his heart race. _Close._ He needed that, the closeness. He felt it; it hurt. "Roger." Mark shook.

"What is it?" Roger muttered into his pillow.

"Um… I guess just hi," Mark admitted. "I'm home. Thought you might be worried, so I called. You got the message?"

Roger nodded. "Yeah. Extra shift."

"Okay. Well… I'm going to take a shower… you need one, too," he added, gently tugging at Roger's hair. "Your hair's disgusting. You can go first if you want to." It was the nicest gesture Mark had the energy to conjure up.

"I'd just use up all the hot water. If you're gonna whack off you need the heat."

"I--what?" Mark considered himself fairly accustomed to the things that came out of Roger's mouth, but this had him floored.

Roger explained, "It's like tenth grade biology, Mark. Cold makes your balls shrink."

"Well-- I-- okay."

"Still think about Maureen when you do it?" Roger asked.

_No, I think about you. _"No, I think about cars." Without a word further, Mark rose and left the room. He thought he heard Roger giggling into his pillow, but surely that was a figment of desire. Shaking his head, Mark locked the bathroom door then reached into the shower and twisted the farthest knob. Pipes ground and protested from deep within the walls, whined and wailed and at last spat.

Waiting for the water to warm up, Mark folded his clothes. It was an old habit, but a comfortable one. It made sense to him. The neat, organized garments perched on the back of the toilet, safe from spray and overflow, sure to be dry when he emerged from the shower.

He folded his shirt carefully and thought about the coming day. Maybe he would film in Times' Square. But no, that couldn't be. It was winter, the tourists were crawling from the woodwork. Mark needed someplace true.

Just as he was stepping out of his trousers, there came a knock at the door. "You had your chance!" Mark snapped crossly.

"Take off your star," Roger replied.

"What?"

Raising his voice to be heard over the waterfall, Roger insisted, "Don't forget to take off your Star of David."

Mark's hand flew to his neck. Sure enough, the thin gold chain hung against his skin, warm enough to go unnoticed. He had nearly showered in it. "Thanks." He finished folding his clothes, then let the necklace crumple grandly atop the pile and stepped into the steam. Droplets of water pounded against his skin, burning like acid. "Thank G-d." Mark's nerves awoke. He felt. It hurt, and he loved it.

Mark emerged from the bathroom warm, damp and grinning. "It's a nice feeling," Roger said. Mark raised his eyes and blinked in disbelief; there stood Roger, at the sink, pouring soup powder into the milk-and-water mixture in the pot. "Being clean," Roger elaborated. His hair clung to his skull, soaked into a felted mess. "That's a joke. Get it? Because I used to be a junkie. Now I'm clean. You just had a shower, so now you're clean."

"You… washed… cooked… You're out of your room!" Mark cried. "You're up!"

Roger grinned. He looked something like a vampire, with his skin so pale and smudges around sunken eyes. "You said, 'you're up,'" he informed Mark with a wicked look on his face.

"Yeah, right. Glad to know you're feeling better," Mark commented sarcastically.

Ignoring him, Roger asked, "Have you ever been camping?"

"What?"

"Camping. You know, you pitch a tent, roll out your sleeping bag, store food in a tree, have a campfire…"

"No. What are you talking about?" As pleased as Mark was that Roger had emerged from his bedroom, this random conversation worried him. What if Roger had left more than the bedroom? "Are you high?"

Roger bit down his first impulse, to stalk into his bedroom and shut the door. His head hurt from the effort. _I thought you meant it, Mark. I thought you weren't just saying that you knew I'd be all right, because you made me believe it, too. _"Of course not," Roger replied. _Stop it,_ he told himself._ You're supposed to be used to this. You fucked up. You're paying the price._

What could easily have become catastrophe melted to nothingness at the sound of a knock on the door. Roger bit his lip. "You want me to…" He could not even ask the question.

"Are you ready for… people?" Mark asked. "You know it's not Collins or Maureen."

"Do you mind if I…" Roger vaguely indicated his room.

Mark shook his head. "No, but you'd better not stay in there." Roger nodded and disappeared. Mark took a deep breath, crossed the room and hauled open the door.

Whatever he had expected, this was not it. Mark would not, in his wildest dreams, have imagined that he would throw open the door to reveal a girl about his height with two dark braids and a bright smile. She clicked off her flashlight when Mark opened the door. "Hi!"

"Um… hi. Do I know you? You're familiar somehow, but…" _but I don't have you on film._

"We spoke earlier," the girl explained, "on the telephone. I'm from the clinic. Can I come in?"

Mark stepped back, and the girl stepped inside. _Shit! _He remembered suddenly when Roger loved castles. For pointless hours, Roger would ramble on about medieval lords, defense, about sieges and never letting in anyone who was not a friend. "My name's Kathryn Brennan," she said. "I want to talk to Roger, if that's okay."

Without a thought, Mark found himself nodding. "I'll just go… see if Roger's awake," he said. "Wait here."

Roger sat cross-legged on the bed, shaking his head purposefully. Before Mark had the question out, Roger told him, "I'm asleep. I don't want to see anyone from the clinic, Mark."

Mark nodded. "Okay." Somehow it didn't seem completely important to him that this might be good for Roger. The clinic helped Roger ease off the drugs, but Roger kept himself clean, not the clinic. Mark had never known a grown man to chafe at the bit as Roger did.

"Sorry," he told the girl from the clinic. "Roger's asleep."

"Look, this isn't what you think it is," she assured Mark, shaking her head slightly. "I'm not here to check up on him. I just want to see if he's okay."

"Okay, well… how is that different?"

She sighed. "I'm _from_ the clinic, the clinic didn't send me," she explained. "I'm here… just me. Just to see if Roger's okay. Like a friend."

Mark chewed the inside of his cheek. She could be lying, easily, but he identified too strongly with her perspective to want her to be. In her situation, he probably would do the same. "Wait right here," he said, and slipped into Roger's room.

"She's lying," Roger decreed baldly. "I don't know her--"

Before he could finish, there was a slamming knock on his door. The boys jumped. "Roger?" It was the girl. "Roger, it's Katie. Please let me in."

Roger looked at Mark, who only shrugged. He sighed. "All right." Roger stood, shaking pins from his left leg, and shuffled to the door. He opened it a few inches; Katie stood before him, her shoulders squared but considerably lower than his, anyway. "Go home," Roger told her. "Okay? You've seen me, you got what you came for, so go home." With that he turned and slammed the door on her, leaving Katie open-mouthed.

Mark gaped. He had known Roger to be callous, but never without purpose. Before Mark had the chance to say as much, Katie knocked again and called out, "Roger! I just want to help--"

"Katie, go home! Your parents are worried about you."

"My parents are dead!"

Mark asked quietly, "You just shouted at an orphan?"

Roger shook his head. "I didn't know…"

"I know you can hear me," Katie continued. "Roger, I like you a lot. You're a really good person and a really good musician. And your boyfriend seems really nice, too." Roger looked at Mark, his eyes widening, but Mark shook his head. _I never told her that!_ "I don't want him to go through what I went through… what you went through…. My mom overdosed," she offered. "And I found her dead from it. Roger, please, I just don't want… you to die."

Mark looked at Roger and raised his eyebrows, asking, _Aren't you going to do anything?_

Roger swallowed and called, "I have AIDS, Katie."

"You're HIV positive," Katie replied. "You do not have AIDS."

_Well_, Mark seemed to say, staring at Roger. Roger took a step towards the door, then took a step back. He shook his head, crossed the room and flung open the door. Katie hadn't moved at inch: she was glaring at Roger, her eyes hard and hurt. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry about your mom."

Katie shrugged. "I liked you," she said, "because you knew what it was like. Because you found April. And you were good, and smart, and… well… You take your AZT, don't you? Because you know, it counteracts the virus. It could help you live for years. I've read the reports. Please take your AZT."

Mark felt a fist clench his stomach. He knew all too well the pain of perpetuating an unwanted life. But to his surprise, Roger only swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah," he promised.

_What?_ Mark thought angrily. He knew it was a stupid, selfish thing to be angry about, but he couldn't help himself. He spent weeks cajoling, coaxing, crying, trying to convince Roger to continue living, then with only five minutes this girl achieves just that. It wasn't fair. _Yeah,_ he told himself, _but I have parents and I have Cindy, and, for what it's worth Roger. I'm not jealous of this girl._

But he was. He was jealous of her sway over Roger. Despairing of his own goodness, Mark turned to Roger and sighed with relief. Roger was a liar. Mark saw it in his eyes. Roger was placating this girl, telling her what she needed to hear because he pitied her. Disgusted with the smile tugging at his lips, Mark thought, _At least he's honest with me._

"Okay," Katie said. "Look, I just needed to be sure. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this; I'll go. Bye. Take your AZT, Roger."

"I will," Roger lied.

_Why doesn't he ever want to protect me? Why doesn't he--no. No! I can't do this. I can't rely on him, can't need him. But, I do. No!_ Mark clenched his fist, letting his nails bite into the soft flesh of his palm.

"Nice meeting you, Mark."

Mark found himself volunteering, "I'll walk you to the subway." _What?_

But already she was smiling. "Thank you."

_Damn._

TO BE CONTINUED


	6. Skin Games

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

They walked almost to the subway without speaking. It was all Mark could do to bite down the words, "You know, he won't take it." He could not understand his jealousy. What was he so frightened off? Every person to enter the loft was not a threat. Roger feared too much to involve himself with any woman, let alone a child--a junkie he was, but not a pervert. Roger was a lot of things, a lot of sins--irresponsible, arrogant, self-indulgent--but not immoral.

_He's alone,_ Mark thought. _No, he isn't. He's got me. He isn't alone._ But Mark knew that he was not what Roger wanted. He could barely manage to be what Roger needed.

But that was the trouble! Frustrated, Mark let out a slow sigh. He had known Roger less than a year. He had known this shadow, this despondent creature who had once, he was told, been glorious. Since Mark had known Roger, Roger had been a wreck. Mark didn't have history, like Collins did. He didn't know where the lines were. He didn't know how far was too far, and feared the results of learning.

"So… you're here. You know how to get home?" Mark forced himself to ask.

Katie nodded. "Look," she said, "I know you made up that story, the one on the telephone? About Roger working? I know that's not true. So I guess he isn't taking his AZT, either, is he?"

_No. _"He does sometimes," Mark managed, his voice raw.

"I wanted to show him that I care," she explained. "He has you, and now… I just wanted him to know." Shaking her head, she clutched her flashlight tightly and disappeared below the surface of the streets.

Mark bit his lip as he headed for home. All this time, he made himself rise to a new day because Roger needed him, because he needed to show the world that Roger was safe. _He isn't a freak._ When Mark and Collins dragged Roger to rehab the first time, everyone they passed on the street had known. They had seen the trembling, emaciated body and heard sobs and protests--"I don't need this, I don't, this is good, what I have now, it's how I need to live my life…"--after tragedy kept him addicted. Mothers crossed the street, holding tightly to their children, and Mark's heart wrenched. _He's not dangerous. He's not a freak. He's just sad is all. Just had to deal with so much, it's been such a burden… Please stop looking at my friend like that._

And so Mark made them appear normal, healthy. He made certain the judges knew that Mark Cohen and Roger Davis lived normal lives. It enabled him, that vague semblance of power, the power to maintain an illusion. It enabled him up to the moment it destroyed him, with the knowledge that a child had seen right through it.

"Hey, you got a light?"

Barely aware of his surroundings, Mark apologized, "No, I'm sorry, I--" but he got no further.

For ten minutes, Roger let his mind wander, leaving his body stretched out on the bed. He freed his mind and thought of nothing. As usual, the trick freed him from boredom by freeing him from emotion. It was almost as good as the drugs. Roger's mind scoffed at the thought. _Almost. What is that? You can't be almost anything. That's like getting a girl almost pregnant._

He pushed himself off the bed and wandered into the kitchen. Mark would want to know about Katie. Mark would want to talk. But Roger didn't want to talk about Katie, about the rehab. Why try explaining the humiliation of having a fifteen-year-old kid clean the vomit off your face? Mark could never understand that, and more importantly Mark didn't deserve understanding.

Roger stumbled to the stove. Cooking was not his forte, but he managed. As he set the kettle with the burning handle over the flame, Roger remembered the first time he had tried to cook anything, when he was fifteen, left home alone with his little sister because, once again, things were tight and his parents needed to put in the extra hours. Roger shook his head, laughing at himself. He had been such a fool.

_"What're you doing?"_

_"I'm making dinner. Stay away from the stove," Roger warned, brandishing a ladle._

_"Why?"_

_"Because it's hot, stupid!"_

_"No… why are you making dinner? And don't call me stupid, I'm not stupid."_

_"You're in kindergarten, Sarah. We don't know yet if you're stupid or not. Anyway, I'm sick of having peanut butter sandwiches every night. Aren't you? I hate peanut butter! Fuck peanut butter!"_

_"You said a swear."_

_"And if you tell anyone, I'll beat the crap outta you!"_

_"Then I get to swear, too!"_

_"Go for it, kid."_

_Roger's attempt to make pasta "all denty", which involved his leaving the pasta in the pot and going to read comics, was a disaster. The water evaporated and the pasta baked onto the bottom of the pot. Perhaps worse was that Sunday, when his mother accidentally stepped on Sarah's fingers and instead of shouting, "Ow!" as most five-year-olds would have, she erupted with, "Fuck!"_

Roger found himself laughing at the memory. Home was not exactly where his heart was, but he did miss his siblings. As usual, Roger promised himself he would look them up when he had something to add to their lives. He would find them when he had something incredible to counter leaving home at seventeen to become a rock star and contracting HIV.

The door slid open with a groan of protest. Roger looked up, grinning, ready to tell Mark all about the pasta incident. One look at Mark swept the grin from Roger's face. In a heartbeat he was next to Mark, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders. "Come on."

Mark tried to push Roger away. "It's nothing," he insisted.

"Yeah," Roger replied sarcastically. "Come on, I've been cleaning wounds since I was seven. Come sit down."

Acquiescing to Roger's direction, Mark asked with equal sarcasm, "What are you going to do, talk me through the pain?"

"No, I'm going to take care of you." The causticity of Mark's tone passed without a flinch from Roger, but it worried him. Since when did Mark snap? _Since he's just been robbed and beaten,_ Roger reminded himself. He pushed around the mess on the table to make a clear space. "Sit," he told Mark. When Mark just leaned against the table, Roger lifted him and let him fall, gently, onto the tabletop.

"Did you just pick me up?" Mark asked.

The screaming kettle ripped through their conversation. Roger poured the water into the biggest bowl they owned, the wooden salad bowl Mark's mother had sent him one year for Christmas.Roger laughed at the thing as he held it under the tap, letting cool water temper the heat. That done, he took another bowl and filled it with cold water.Satisfied, he tossed a handful of salt intoeach bowl and, realizing he would have no hands free, tucked a dishcloth through one of the beltloops on his jeans.

"What are you planning, exactly?" Mark asked.

"I told you, I'm going to take care of you," Roger repeated.

_I know. I just wanted to hear you say it again._ "Hey, what are you doing?" Mark asked. _Why am I protesting? G-d, am I this horny? I've just been beaten up for the first time since… forever… and I'm horny?_

Roger continued unbuttoning Mark's shirt. "I just want to make sure you're okay. Trust me, I've done this before."

Mark laughed wryly, then coughed. "Shit. Okay."

"You look like hell. Hang on." When Roger bounded towards the bathroom, Mark nearly cursed him out. _I've just come in beat up, and you're thinking about that. Do you ever stop thinking about your penis? It's all you ever think about, Roger, coming and going…_ Mark couldn't believe his mind. Since when did he think about Roger's… about _that_? Why, sitting top-naked on a cold metal table, was the memory of Roger's hands so close to his skin turning Mark on?

This was definitely not normal.

Roger returned with an armful of towels, one of which he tossed into Mark's lap. "You're about to get wet," he warned.

_You have no idea._

TO BE CONTINUED

About Mark and Roger's history: in the continuum I'm using for this story, Mark moved in after April's suicide. So many stories have him and Roger with a lengthy history; I wanted to explore the other interpretation.

Also, why is Mark horny? Because he's in pain. Sometimes, in the face of unendurable pain, the brain protects the body or gets confused, I don't know exactly what, but it sends pain for pleasure.

Concerning the sin reference--yes, Jews have sins. Yes, we have commandments, over 600 of them. I get asked that a lot. We can sin, but as I understand the Catholic church, we're more lenient about it.


	7. Bloody Knuckles

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

Mark was dying a slow, agonizing death. He sat on the table, gritted his teeth and thought as much as possible about baseball, but his poor stash of sports knowledge was exhausted in under a minute and Roger needed far more time than that.

Bracing Mark with one hand wrapped around his shoulder, Roger washed his friend's bruises with cold water. He spoke softly as he did, meaningless words, "You'll be okay… this isn't so bad… after a day or two, you'll hardly remember…" The words were meant as solace, but to Mark these were the cheap promises of sweet pillow talk. Both men silently acknowledged the falsity of the words, but neither wanted to discuss the pain Mark would face over the next few days, the soreness, the flaring hurt every time he awoke.

Roger bent his head to examine one of the bruises. His hair brushed against Mark's chest, the tiny contact eliciting a whimper.

Roger leapt back. "I'm sorry," he said. "Did I hurt you? I'm trying to be gentle, but it's been a while," he apologized. "Guess my hands are a little ungainlier than I'd thought," he laughed, spreading his long fingers in a hangdog plea for forgiveness.

Mark swallowed hard, wishing he could think of something, anything other than which particular swelling those fingers could ease. "It's not that bad," he managed. "Am I okay?"

"Yeah," Roger said. He stepped closer. As he leaned over to drench the cloth again with cold water, his breath against Mark's shoulder made Mark shiver. "You must be freezing. I'm sorry, Mark. I'll try to hurry."

"No rush," Mark squeaked, then gasped, this time at the cold as Roger pushed against his chest.

"I'm sorry… the cold helps the swelling," Roger explained. As he continued to bathe Mark's bruised abdomen with icy water, he continued, "Cold slows the flow of blood. No blood, no swelling, see? So this should help."

Mark nodded. What could he say? _I'm getting hot from your touch. I can't stand it anymore. Please stop teasing me, Roger, it hurts!_ Yet he did not want the pain to stop. It was beautiful, glorious, pure and true. He wanted to push it to another level, indulge this ache. _Keep going, Roger…_ Mark gasped again as Roger dragged the cloth over a particularly nasty bruise on Mark's left side, at the bottom of his ribcage.

"Okay." Roger twisted the cloth into a tight rope, draining the water back into the bowl, then he plunged the cloth into the salad bowl filled with warm, salty water. "This may hurt," he warned. "I'm going to clean your face. It's probably not bleeding anymore. Hold as still as you can. You might want to close your eyes."

Mark obeyed, shutting his eyes and trying not to squirm as warm water cleared the blood from his face. "This is my fault," Roger muttered. "I'm so sorry, Mark. This is all my fault."

"Why?" Mark asked. A dribble of salt water dove into his mouth, and he pulled a face. _Ow._ "You can't always be protecting me," he added.

"Not that," Roger said. He wrung out the cloth again, and Mark trembled as the cold water brushed over his face. "I should have been beating you up more."

Mark laughed incredulously. "You should have _what_?" he asked.

"Beat you up," Roger repeated. "I should've taught you how to take a punch. My little sister takes one better, and she's seven."

"Seven?"

Roger shrugged. "The last time I saw her, anyway," he offered in an offhand tone, as though he did not wonder what had become of her and all his sisters. There had been so many Davises they were considered a brood; why had Roger never gotten to know them better? The only sibling he had been truly close with was Sarah, and then only because she followed him wherever he went.

Slowly, Mark's eyes opened. By now Roger had finished freezing Mark's face, and had started once more on his abdomen, in particular a nasty bruise on Mark's sternum. The blow had left him winded. "Does this hurt?" Roger asked. "If it hurts, I'll stop. We can take you to a doctor."

"It's fine," Mark assured him. _Please don't stop._ He was painfully aware of his pulse, the snapping air, Roger's hand holding tightly to his shoulder.

"Are you sure?" Roger asked. When Mark nodded, Roger carefully dipped one corner of the cloth into the cold water. "This'll be hell," he warned, then brushed the frigid water over Mark's temple. As he did, Roger let his knuckle drop to brush gently against Mark's skin, a cool, medicinal touch.

Mark couldn't help himself: he moaned._ Oh, shit._ Already Mark felt himself blushing._ Shit. No, it's okay, it's pain, I can salvage this. I can tell Roger it's the pain, pain making me dizzy maybe._ Because, thick as Roger could be at times, Mark was fairly certain that by now he had noticed the activity in Mark's trousers. _It's okay. This doesn't mean anything, it doesn't have to--_

Mark grabbed Roger and kissed him.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are appreciated! Flames are bad, but constructive criticism is good!

There'll be a new chapter soon, but I'm being told not to do any more of this until I've done my music lesson.


	8. With Fire

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

He had never before kissed a man, or particularly wanted to, but overall Mark found the experience a simple one. It was exactly what he had imagined, though that he had at all imagined it surprised him: Roger's chapped lips; rough, broken skin, tasting of old beer and toothpaste. A kiss with Maureen never lasted this long or comforted Mark this much. He never toyed with her hair as his fingers unconsciously did with Roger's, teasing damp curls.

But then, Maureen never planted her hands firmly on Mark's chest and pushed him away.

"Mark!" Roger exploded. At his roommate's wide-eyed, hurt expression, he said, "Look… I'm sorry. I don't… I like… I'm sick. I'm sorry. If I'd known, I never would have…" He let his voice trail off and shook his head. "Congratulations on coming out," he said finally, "and I do hope you find the right guy, but that guy is not me. That can't happen."

"It can," Mark insisted, grabbing Roger's wrist as he turned to go. "I don't care, Roger! If I get sick… I don't care."

Roger returned, giving the sad smile that was almost a frown. As Mark watched and waited, wide-eyed, Roger touched the bruise over Mark's left eye. _You're so hurt… I can't hurt you anymore._ Roger reached into his pocket. "You left this in the bathroom," he said, holding out something that glittered gold in the loft's poor light.

Numb, Mark swept his fingers across Roger's palm. He hooked a necklace, his necklace, the thin chain and Star of David he had thought lost to the muggers. "Thank you," he whispered, locking the chain around his neck. "I thought I'd lost it."

"Are you hungry?" Roger asked. "I cooked. It's not great. I mean, well, it's just soup, but not lentils. You probably don't want to eat…"

"Soup sounds good," Mark said. As Roger returned to the kitchen in search of bowls, Mark tugged on and buttoned his shirt. He dried the table off and cleared enough space for the two of them to eat.

The meal commenced in silence. Neither Mark nor Roger dared mention the kiss, that fragile, passionate moment, both wished they could forget. "Hey," Roger said suddenly, "look."

"At what?" Mark asked. Roger held up the newspaper still sitting on the table. "Hey, crossword! How old is that thing?"

"Ages. You want to finish it?"

"Sure."

Roger grabbed his bowl off the table and drained it. "Oh," he said, "wait. Are you still eating?"

"No… are you worried about soup stains on the paper?" Mark asked.

Roger shook his head. "Dessert," he explained, mysteriously cheerful.

Mark laughed. "Dessert? We're poor. We don't have dessert. We have beer. What, did you make cereal souffle?" He had never been so sarcastic with Roger, but in his current state, Mark couldn't bring himself to care. His chest and face throbbed from bruises, he had humiliated himself and been rejected. Nothing could bring his evening lower.

Somehow, Roger had scrounged up aluminum foil. He set a plate on the table and began unwrapping the foil, withdrawing every second or so as though burned. "This one time," he muttered, "when I was, I don't know, eleven years old? Maybe. My mom was pregnant, and I was pissed with her for taking away the one thing I had--being the youngest--

"Youngest?" Mark asked. " I didn't have you pegged as a 'youngest'."

"Really?" Roger asked. "You had me… pegged?"

Mark shook his head. "No, I couldn't get a read. But when you were… taking care of me… it was like you had done it before."

"I have," Roger answered simply. "Told you my mom was pregnant, right? So this one day, my dad just shows up during homeroom, pulls me out of school and takes me camping. Just me. And that's how I learned about banana boats."

"Banana… the inflatable rubber things in Mexico?" Mark asked, thinking of the floating boats.

Roger giggled. "Inflatable rubber things?" he repeated, snickering. "No. Eat."

Mark obeyed, pushing a fork into the sloppy mess Roger had concocted. _Oh, G-d. I can't eat this._ Mark shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and bit. Heat and sugar spilled into his mouth. "Hey!" Mark cried, his mouth full, "This is actually good!"

Roger laughed. "Yeah, it's good," he said. "It's like the opposite of a monkey's tail. Banana baked with chocolate inside."

Not completely certain he wanted to know, Mark asked, "What is a monkey's tail?"

"You've never had one?" Roger asked in disbelief. "Ooh, that's sad." He spooned a bite of banana-chocolate goop into his mouth and said, "A monkey's tail is a banana that's been dipped in chocolate and sprinkled with chopped nuts and frozen, and it's delicious."

"Uh…" It was another question Mark didn't want to ask, "When you say banana, Roger--"

"The fruit, you fuckin' perv!" Roger interrupted, and Mark had the distinct impression that, had he not been bruised, Roger would have given him a playful shove. Although the words were clearly a reaction to Mark's suggestion that Roger's sweet tooth might have been for more than candy, Mark could not help but think that Roger would not have made the joke, or made it so loudly, if not for the kiss, that pathetic attempt at closeness. Reading this, Roger's face fell. "Aw, Mark… look, I don't care that you're gay. Okay? I don't, really. I just… I'm not."

"Neither am I," Mark muttered.

Roger laughed. "What? You're not okay?"

"I'm not gay," Mark explained. He wasn't. He didn't fall for boys. He liked girls. He loved, had loved Maureen. That kiss, the attraction, both were abnormalities.

Roger scoffed. "Okay," he said, "you know what? I can't do this right now. I can't play this game."

"_You_ don't want to play games?" Mark asked, incredulous. "_You_ don't want to?" His voice rose in pitch and volume, scraping the inside of his throat. "Why is it always about what you want, Roger? For the last month I've been taking care of you because you didn't want to do it yourself! Because you didn't want the responsibility! After what I did for you, you can't do just one thing for me?"

Roger had been shouted at by the best. He had been guilted into a gibbering wreck by Collins and in more than his share of fights in school. He had been lectured by teachers, counselors, principals, even psychiatrists, every one following careful guidelines. Roger had learned to silence the world around him.

He had also learned to shout back. "What one thing, Mark?" he demanded. "What thing? Fuck you?"

"Yes!" The word shocked Mark. "Yes, Roger, that's what I want, I want you to make me forget everything."

Roger scoffed. "I'm not that good," he said.

"This isn't a joke!" Mark began to cry then, though he did not know it. "I know you. I know you womanize, and you drink and get high and you fuck while you're drunk and high! You've done it to hundreds of girls, why can't you do it to me?"

"Do you not understand that I am dying? You brought me here, kept me alive. Well, I wanted to die!" he bellowed. Few people have the lung capacity and fury to bellow; Roger Davis was one of those people. "You kept me alive because you can't stand being alone, you can't do things for yourself because you hate yourself that much. You know what, Mark? That's really sad," Roger said.

Mark gaped. He had never before been shouted at, and Roger's sudden descent from furious to soft tones surprised him. Was this sarcasm? Did Roger mean 'pathetic' or 'sorrowful'?

"It's sad," Roger continued, "because you're a good person. And you're smart and you aren't jaded beyond use!" The final three words burst with a new stream of anger, this time not against Mark but in his favor. "My G-d, Mark! Are you that blind? You aren't just a little boy with his camera, a little boy too scared to realize that friends don't last. You're a man! You've accepted that we die, that I will die and Collins will die and you are going to make everyone see the truth. That's what your camera is for. You're doing something worthwhile."

He opened his mouth to speak, but Mark conjured only a squeak.

"So, no, Mark, I won't give you pity sex, because I don't pity you. I envy you. I wish I had your drive and dedication and vision! I won't help you forget your suffering, because you take it and make things. So why don't you learn to love yourself the way everyone else loves you, without the low-five? Christ, Mark!"

Roger shook his head, threw his hands in the air, and left Mark alone, crying.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews are nice... and thank you to prettyboyfrontmanlove for pointing out a homographic error. I totally knew that!


	9. game over

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is just fun. And boy, is it ever fun!

Mark had never particularly cared about the insults thrown out by the boys at his high school. Being smart and poor at sports did not mean he was gay; being gay, though Mark was not and Nanette Himmelfarb could attest to that, did not mean he was a girl. The surreality of his situation, of the insults, had kept them from hurting Mark. They only confused him.

That night, as he chewed his knuckles to keep from crying out, Mark felt for the first time that the insults were true. He felt like a girl, a pathetic, needy girl. He felt like Roger.

When had everything changed? When had the bed gone from being too crowded to being too big, too empty? When had Mark gone from having a friend and a girlfriend to being alone, despised and rejected? It had been too quick for him, and suddenly Mark could not ignore the fragments of his past existence.

He listened to the sounds of the loft: the dripping sink, shuffling feet as Roger left his room. At least Roger left his room, but Mark was too far gone to be comforted by that tiny victory.

The door to Mark's room squeaked open.

"Mark?" It was Roger, and who else, creeping in. "Mark. I know you're awake." When Mark said nothing, Roger sat on the bed. He continued gently, "I'm sorry for a lot of what I said. I was out of line. Um… I do think you need to learn to love yourself the way other people love you--"

Mark rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "What other people?" he demanded. "Where are they?"

Roger considered before answering, "Collins is working. Your family is in Scarsdale. Benny… I don't know or particularly care where Benny is," Roger admitted. He and Benny had never completely been friends, more endured, semi-abusive housemates. Roger hesitated before reaching out and stroking Mark's hair. "I'm here," he said. "I don't… I won't… Mark, I love you. I do. But not like that. You understand?"

"Yeah," Mark said, and rolled away from Roger. _You have affection for me. You appreciate me. But you don't love me._

Roger sighed. He shifted until he was lying beside Mark, then gave his roommate an awkward, horizontal hug. "Mark," Roger said, "listen to me. This can't mean anything other than I love you like a brother. It can't. I'm here for you, Mark, I am, but… Mark… Jesus, this is really hard to say. Mark, I… care about you, but too much. You're the one with dedication. You're the one with talent. You'll do something for the world, Mark, and I can't take that away. It would be… criminal."

"I just don't want to be alone," Mark told the darkness.

"You're not alone," Roger promised. "And you know… if you still want pity sex…" As he spoke his hands traveled slowly southward. "I wasn't kidding when I said I'm not that good. I haven't even done this for myself since… since April. Mark? Is this what you want?"

"You know," Mark said thoughtfully, moving his hands to cover Roger's, "it really isn't." He brought Roger's hands higher and clasped them together, then rolled over to bury his face against Roger's chest. "Can you just stay here tonight?" Mark asked. "It won't mean anything. Just stay."

"Okay," Roger promised. His arms stiffened slightly, tense.

Mark knew Roger had never before shared a bed with another man. "Talk," he mumbled. "Just talk."

"Okay. Um… I was born out of state…" Roger mumbled his history into Mark's hair long after Mark had fallen asleep, until he was too tired to be bothered. Only then, in certain privacy, did Roger twist to kiss Mark's hair. "I'd love you if I could," he promised his sleeping friend.

Mark smiled. _Yes. That'll do._

THE END!

For anyone still reading this, thank you. I'd love to hear from you if you enjoyed this story and/or have criticism of it.


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